


Slow Growing

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: And Lots of It, Blood Magic, Kirindave - Freeform, Kirindave/Alex Parvis - Freeform, Urban Magic Yogs, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For Parvis, it was a simple enough tradeoff. A bit of sacrifice rewarded power, protection, speed and strength and more, a slightly bigger sacrifice let him imbue his various worldly possessions with the same."</p><p>A story told in blood, as lived by it's dynamo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Growing

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this isn't necessarily canon to the official Urban Magic Yogs 'verse.
> 
> Unbeta'd by anyone but me, so apologies for any typos.

It seemed like half the people in the city had dabbled in blood magic one way or another. It was a sort of introductory course to magic, usually latched onto by angry kids and forgotten when the anger faded with age.

For Parvis, it was a simple enough tradeoff. A bit of sacrifice rewarded power, protection, speed and strength and more, a slightly bigger sacrifice let him imbue his various worldly possessions with the same.

Resources were easily forthcoming: battered library books and dubiously-coded websites from similarly dubious origins, nostalgic hedgewitches and grumbling mortals could all tell him everything he needed to know.

His original altar was a tiny, shoddy thing, made of a glass mixing bowl and a few chunks of blood-stained concrete originating from the dilapidated sidewalk outside his apartment. It sat on the floor in the corner of his bedroom, perfectly innocuous save for the writhing waves of sanguine against the edge of the bowl. Simple, really.

He followed the guides, some so shoddily typed they were nearly illegible, others so dedicatedly florid he could hardly understand them. He imbued his books with power and demonic memory, scrawled runes onto papers and stones and his own arms, always enjoying the smooth rush of strength or speed or brilliance they gave him.

His altar grew as his ambition did, as the materials stopped being enough to channel the growing power he had slowly but surely amassed.

The bowl became a brass basin, the concrete was replaced with quartz and marble and delicately carved stone, none of which were particularly cheap. Tiger's eye, bloodstone, and spinel replaced the shards of broken beer bottles he used as conduits. He tossed his shitty pocketknife, investing in a sharp and intricate dagger that he had to haggle for fiercely. He moved the altar to his livingroom for easier access, piled up his stones and crystals and texts on a shelf dedicated solely to his craft. There were imbued and empowered slates in nearly every room, filling his home with a steady thrum of power and defense that he came to view as a sanctuary from the abrasive unknown of the outside.

Looking back, he couldn't pinpoint where things changed. He didn't know when he stopped using the websites, or when the basic rituals became so ingrained in his memory that he no longer needed any resource but himself.

It became a struggle to find new information. He devoured text after text, always looking for new spells to perform, new rituals to try, new demons to listen to. It became habit to smear runes onto stone plates with his own lifeblood, in a language that was rapidly becoming familiar. He experimented, following his gut and his own prior knowledge: sometimes, he discovered things utterly undocumented, sometimes he had to spend three days cleaning the resulting mess. He made backups, and safety nets, cushioned his growing power in a pool of blood and sacrifice.

The demands from his demons and spells steadily grew, and eventually, he just wasn't enough.

The first time he ventured out to pick up someone to 'donate' to his supply, he was terrified. There were hundreds of things that could go wrong, from picking the wrong target to ending up in jail.

 But that too eventually became routine. He would paint up and down the insides of his arm with spells; true sight, protection, strength, all armour scrawled in words. He tucked blood-soaked papers into his pockets, writ with words of power and advice from his oft-summoned fiends. He dove into shitty bars and scooped up the drunkards and sleazes, acting equally inebriated as he cajoled them into his car, where heated makeouts always made an excellent cover for him to drag bloody memory-blocking runes onto their backs. Then it was easy enough to haul them to his room and knock them out. He would bleed them near to dry and then perform minor healing, just enough to erase the wounds, and threw them into his rarely-used bed.

When they woke up in the morning feeling like hell, they always assumed it was the alcohol, and his carefully placed illusion-imbued slates hid the altar as much as he needed.

It was a perfect system, and one that might have lasted him forever had he not tried to catch the wrong man.

His prey was built like a lumberjack, tall and bearded and blonde and unusually pretty for this side of town. He also might have been glowing, but that was probably the poor lighting of the dingy bar. Parvis certainly wasn't the only one in the joint to notice him, but he  _was_ the only one who slid into the seat next to him and struck up conversation.

The man's name was Dave, he ran the florist's in town, and he had gorgeous blue eyes. He let Parv buy him a few drinks, seeming equal parts flattered and amused, and accepted Parv's offer to take him home.

The plan went wrong as soon as they reached the car, of course. Now that they were out of the bar, it was much more obvious that the man was not as human as he made himself out to be. The words of vision in Parv's pocket let him see the faintest outline of horns and a tail.  He was wary immediately, the absence of a crowd letting Dave's quiet aura of power expose itself completely. He stepped back, trying to come up with a clever way to get Dave to go back to the bar so he could make his escape, when the man in question slammed both hands around Parvis' head, pinning him against his car. 

"So, blood mage, what  _exactly_  did you intend to do with me?" he asked mildly, as though he wasn't about to murder the hell out of Parv.

"Was thinking of asking you to go pick up my phone from the bar, actually," he said, trying not to be intimidated and failing miserably. "I don't kill people, if that's what you're thinking."

"Don't you?" Dave asked, rolling up one of Parv's sleeves to reveal the long line of defensive runes drawn against his skin. He dragged his thumb down Parv's forearm, smearing the marks, and Parvis winced at the loss of power. "This isn't your blood, not all of it, anyway. Willing sacrifices are hard to come by these days."

Indignation trumped fear for a moment. "I don't fucking kill people! I pick 'em up at places like this, same as I did you, and I get some blood and let them think we were a one night stand," he snapped, baring his teeth.

Dave's grip loosened ever so slightly before he stepped back fully, looking at Parv with something akin to interested curiosity (if curiosity had the distinct predatory vibe Parv was getting.) He was quiet for a long while as Parvis attempted to regain some dignity, hoping silently that tonight wasn't his night to die.

"I think I have a proposition that may strike both of our interests," he said eventually and Parv glanced up to appraise him. Dave looked sincere, if not distractingly handsome, but looks could clearly be deceiving. "You need blood, I need customers. Come to my shop at noon tomorrow." Parv's doubt must have shown on his face, as Dave gave a winning smile. "I'll make it worth your while."

Doubtlessly, it's a bad idea, one that left a sour taste in his mouth the whole lonely drive home. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to be exactly where Dave had asked.

He only hoped it wouldn't ruin his life too much.


End file.
